


honour among thieves

by newclassic



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Heist, Modern Westeros, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, R Plus L Does Not Equal J
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:34:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21929803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newclassic/pseuds/newclassic
Summary: Jon Snow comes from a long line of master thieves, but determined to leave the family business behind, he comes up with a con of his own: scam his way into the country’s oldest and most prestigious university, and try to lead a normal life.Unfortunately, maintaining his new life proves to be harder than expected. And soon, Jon’s former partner-in-crime, Daenerys Targaryen, shows up to reel him back into the world he’s desperately tried to forget.Based on Heist Society by Ally Carter.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 97
Kudos: 154





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So...this happened.
> 
> This is my first time posting on here. Be gentle.

**THE CITADEL, OLDTOWN**

There were few things quite as lovely as spring at the Citadel. But then, there were few things quite _like_ the Citadel, with its soaring white stone towers and glass dome ceilings that glinted under the morning sun. Its lawn was perfectly manicured, its cobbled grounds were pristine, and the air—much like Oldtown itself—was always fragrant and thick with the scent of flowers. And at night, when the city came alive, the world-renowned university would find itself ringed with the vibrant colours of Oldtown's skyline.

Oh, yes, there were few things quite as lovely as the Citadel indeed. This was a fact in which members of its faculty took great pride, and it was something they had desperately tried to uphold in the many years that the institution had stood.

Yet on one particular Saturday morning, students and faculty alike woke up not to the sight of their picture-perfect campus, but to a display that could be taken as nothing less than a mockery of their proud institution.

Most people would call this an overreaction. It was just a simple prank, after all. But the Citadel, with its time-honoured traditions and largely blue-blooded alumni, had never been one to take things lightly. Certainly not when its delicately-crafted reputation was on the line. And it was never more so than when the head of its Medieval Studies program found his beloved armour collection—a gift from Aemon Targaryen himself—in the middle of the school fountain, displaying several less-than-tasteful body functions, while water shot out of their crotches.

It only got worse when the Medieval Studies head himself, Alliser Thorne, got wind of the news on social media, of all places. As it turned out, students and members of the Oldtown community had taken to posting about the Citadel’s latest exhibit under the hashtag ‘Maesters Have More Fun’. It would have been an amusing yet easily-forgiven dig at the old Citadel order, had it not gone viral with increasingly inappropriate and lewd images.

Now, the alleged culprit, one by the name of Jon Snow, sat in the middle of the Seneschal’s Court—cool and calm, as though he wasn’t on the cusp of expulsion. Around him, the student council sat in neat rows, while the department heads and the Seneschal lined the mahogany table at the front of the room.

“The Court will now begin its session,” Seneschal Theobald announced, voice reverberating across the wood-panelled room. He was an old, greying man. Gruff and stoic, but fair from what Jon had seen of him. Yet at that moment, he eyed Jon like a hawk just as everyone else in the room did.

Any other student might have cowered under such scrutiny, but from the moment Jon Snow arrived at the Citadel, he’d been something of an oddity. While other students jumped at the chance to flaunt their wealth or grades, Jon remained mysterious as ever. What people knew of him came entirely from rumours—like how he was the bastard son of an elusive Northern tycoon, who could buy out all of King’s Landing at the drop of a hat. Or how he was the son of a powerful mobster, who’d been secretly funding the Citadel’s more questionable research proposals—no one knew for sure.

The truth, of course, lay somewhere in between. Jon _was_ the bastard son of an elusive Northern family, but they weren’t tycoons by any means (the Starks hadn’t seen that kind of wealth since before the great Houses came to a crashing end thousands of years ago). And there _were_ questionable motives involved, but Jon would hardly call his family mobsters, nor would they even care about the Citadel.

“Calling the case of Jon Snow, fourth year,” the Seneschal continued. “You stand accused of breaking and entering, theft, and vandalism of school property. In accordance with the Citadel’s code of conduct, these actions are punishable by expulsion. Do you understand the charges that have been read to you?”

“I didn’t do it,” Jon said calmly.

“The charges, Mr. Snow,” the Seneschal grunted. “I asked if you understood the charges, not if you were responsible for them.”

“I understand them. I just don’t agree with them.”

Professor Thorne rolled his eyes. “Always so bloody smart, aren’t you, Snow?”

Jon’s eyes darted between his professors. Surely there were rules against having Thorne play jury in his own case against Jon.

Thorne had had a poor view of Jon even before his collection got trashed. He’d thought Jon a bratty know-it-all with no respect for authority, ever since Jon publicly questioned the authenticity of the Citadel’s Dark Sister exhibit. (Jon knew for a fact that the Citadel’s legendary Targaryen longsword had been replaced with a fake almost fifty years ago.)

But before Jon could point this out, the Seneschal raised a silencing hand.

“We’ll start by reviewing your school record,” he said, and everyone at the table each flipped open a brown folder. “Admittedly, there isn’t much of it since you’ve only been with us a year…”

“What do his previous schools have to say about him then?” Marwyn Mage urged, although he couldn’t look more indifferent if he tried. The tenured professor always did as he pleased, despite the ‘mad scientist’ rumours that followed him, and it seemed this trial only posed a hindrance to exactly that.

“Well…” The Seneschal laughed nervously, and Jon almost joined him. “We contacted the Myr Institute and it seemed their servers are still down after the storm. And the administration building at the University of Volantis seemed to have burned down, making it very difficult to get things in order…”

Murmurs about those “bloody Volantenes and their bloody god of flame” fluttered around the room, but Malora Hightower, the head of the Arts program, only cocked an eyebrow at Jon.

“Those are some of the best schools in Essos,” she noted.

“Yes, Professor Hightower. My family”—he paused, considering his words—“spends a lot of time there.”

“What exactly do your parents do?” A voice piped up from where the student council sat, and Jon craned his neck to find Sarella Sand’s black viper eyes fixed on him. From anyone else, the question might have been a dig at his last name. Jon had learned very quickly just how much status and prestige continued to matter at a place like the Citadel. But there was nothing malicious in Sarella Sand’s voice. Sarella was just curious.

“I never knew my father.”

A hush fell over the room as Jon received the onslaught of knowing looks and pitiful sighs that came with being a boy who grew up without a father. Professor Thorne, however, didn’t blink an eye. “And your mother?” he prompted, not one to let a conveniently absent parent stop his search for justice. “What does _she_ do?”

“Art,” Jon answered carefully. “My mother does many things, but her expertise lies in art.”

Professor Hightower looked at him, intrigued. "Your mother is an artist?"

Jon bit back a smile. “Something like that, yes.”

“As fascinating as that sounds”—Seneschal Theobald held up a hand to silence the room once again—“Mr. Snow is not at the Seneschal’s Court because of his family. He’s here because of an incident that occurred two days ago.” The Seneschal’s mouth formed a grim line as he narrowed his eyes at Jon. “Tell me, Mr. Snow, where were you Friday night?”

“In my flat. Sleeping.”

“So you didn’t leave your residence hall at all that night?”

“No.”

Seneschal Theobald frowned. “But that’s the thing, you _did_ leave your residence hall and someone _did_ see you. Or were you not aware of the cameras set up throughout campus?”

In fact, Jon _did_ know about the cameras. Out of habit, Jon had mapped out every nook and cranny of the Citadel on his first week alone. He knew every blindspot, every busted door and window, and every hideout students liked to haunt for napping and smoking alike. He even knew of every creaky floorboard and every loose cobblestone that would inevitably draw attention if ever stepped on. But the Seneschal’s Court didn’t need to know any of that.

Instead, Jon kept his mouth shut and watched as Seneschal Theobald pushed a button on a remote, dimming the lights in the room. At that, Pate got up and wheeled in a large television screen. When it flickered to life, Jon watched as a figure dressed head-to-toe in a black ran towards the Medieval Studies Building. The security footage was ghostly black-and-white but Jon didn't need it to know the person in it wasn't him.

“That's not me.”

“You're going to have to come up with a better excuse than that, Snow," Professor Thorne sneered. “We checked the building’s security logs. The doors were opened only once that night, and it happened with the help of _this_.”

The screen flickered again, and this time an image of Jon’s school I.D. came to life. A scandalized buzz swept over the room as every member of the Court swivelled their heads to compare Jon’s student photo to the very person that sat before them.

Jon’s dark curls were longer now, pulled back into a low bun; and his grey eyes, which had been fiery and determined in the picture, were now washed over with the calm indifference he often wore around the rich kids of the Citadel. Yet unlike the security footage, the person in the image was undeniably him.

“That is your student I.D., is it not, Mr. Snow?” Seneschal Theobald raised a brow at him.

“It is, but—”

“And does this not look familiar?” The Seneschal held up the white wolf head of a Direwolves keychain. In itself the fob meant nothing—even this far south, Jon was hardly the only Direwolves fan around. But the accompanying _Ghost_ engraving that marked it as Jon’s 16th nameday present from Rickon was unmistakable on the wolf's collar. “This was found on the floor of Professor Thorne’s office. If I recall correctly, you requested animal-friendly housing for a dog by the same colouring and name, yes?”

Jon let out a breath, his calm melting into annoyance. He was used to being accused. Gods knew his mother spent most of his childhood accusing him of every problem under the sun (and rightly so). But being _wrongly_ accused—because of such amateur mistakes, no less—was just insulting.

“I realize how damning the evidence looks,” Jon started, careful to tamp down his growing irritation. “But perhaps it’s all just a little too much evidence? Surely, I never would've been admitted into an institution as renowned as the Citadel if I was so careless as to use my own I.D. to commit a crime.”

A low rumble of suspicious murmurs erupted as the Court mulled over his words, but the doubtful scowl on Thorne's face only worsened. “So because this prank was so sloppily done, that somehow means you didn't do it?”

Jon shrugged. “I'm not an idiot.”

Professor Marwyn cackled, looking interested for the first time since the trial started. “So how would you have done it?”

Jon stared at the professor, considering his answer. He could tell him about the blindspot at the western entrance of the Medieval Studies Building. Or how the maintenance staff never bothered to do rounds on Sunday evenings, making it the perfect time to pull off such a scheme. Or that if anyone with common sense had pulled a prank like this, they would’ve known that a few simple clicks on the computer could’ve easily bypassed the security on any campus door, removing the need for an I.D. in the first place.

But despite the name he’d been given and despite the life he’d chosen to lead, Jon was still his mother’s son, and for all of her reckless impulsivity and disdain for rules, Lyanna Stark had raised Jon to live by a certain code. And that was something he knew he could never betray at a place like the Citadel. So he stared straight ahead and kept his mouth shut.

Taking his silence as answer enough, Seneschal Theobald gave Jon a hard look. “Mr. Snow, is there anything else you’d like to say in your defense?”

When Jon’s silence continued, the Seneschal shook his head, as if he was actually disappointed with what was about to happen. Then he decreed Jon’s immediate expulsion, banged his gavel, and dismissed the Court.

* * *

By the time Jon walked out of the Seneschal’s Court, he’d been the only one left in it.

He’d been too shell-shocked by the day’s events to move from his seat even as people began filing out. Too preoccupied with the realization that something was horribly wrong to acknowledge the passive-aggressive comments and disappointed frowns everyone had directed his way. Not even when Thorne approached him with a smug smirk, as if he’d done something so smart, did Jon move a muscle.

No, Jon had bigger fish to fry—like figuring out how he’d gotten expelled for something he didn’t even do.

“Jon!” A voice called out, and Jon looked up to find Sarella with a small group of their classmates, waiting for him outside the Court.

Armen and Mollander flanked her loyally, their eyes shining with admiration as Jon drew near. But it was the sight of Leo Tyrell waiting patiently for the Bastard of the North that took Jon by surprise.

Leo Tyrell was a special breed of asshole that only grew in the Reach. Cruel, entitled, and exactly what Jon pictured when he thought of old money nepotism. But at that moment, he seemed to watch Jon with the same fascination Armen and Mollander did.

“Once a bastard, always a bastard, huh?” Leo greeted, a malicious little grin on his face.

Jon rolled his eyes. Not for the first time, he wondered how Sarella and her friends had managed to avoid shoving the Tyrell spawn from the top of High Tower after years of schooling together.

As if daring his suspicions, Sarella’s eyes twitched at the sound of the blond’s voice, although she ignored him in favour of talking to Jon. “So how’d you do it?” she asked, a small smile on her lips as if she was almost impressed.

“See that, Snow?” Leo mocked. “You’ve stumped the Sphinx herself.”

“Would you shut up?” The group chorused as Sarella smacked the Reachman upside the head. Sarella turned her dark eyes back on Jon. “Well?”

Jon sighed, looking between his former classmates. “You know what,” he said after a moment. “That’s _exactly_ what I’m trying to figure out.”

The group blinked, clearly disappointed. But Jon could only think of one answer to their question, and he knew it wasn't the one they were looking for.

Jon had been framed.

Someone had taken the time to duplicate his I.D., dress up exactly like him, and make sure to get it all on camera. More importantly, someone had been able to steal his Direwolves keychain without Jon suspecting a thing.

It was more than a little disconcerting. Not only had someone framed Jon, but whoever had done it was good, _really_ good. Good enough to know the one thing Jon was too afraid to admit even to himself: he was starting to get rusty.

* * *

It didn’t take long for Jon to pack up his flat. Growing up, Jon had been used to living out of a suitcase, if at all, and despite the year he’d spent at the Citadel, it seemed the habit was too deeply ingrained to break. After packing up his meagre belongings, he collected Ghost from the wolfdog’s self-appointed corner of the room and set out to leave.

He stopped only once to say his goodbyes to the Tarlys, his next-door neighbours. Sam and Gilly, who were interns at the Citadel Hospital, had taken a liking to Jon after he'd kept Sam from being mugged in Oldtown. Little Sam had taken an even bigger shine to Ghost, who licked the young boy's crying face as Jon ushered him out of the building.

As he and Ghost stalked across the afternoon sun, Jon couldn’t help but wonder what his family would say if they saw him. He’d done a hell of a job, faking an entirely new life in the finest school Westeros had to offer. It was exactly the sort of thing his family would gush about in Nana’s kitchen. And yet the sinking feeling that he had somehow failed—that he’d been caught—still lingered at the pit of his stomach.

_No, you were framed,_ Jon chided himself as he finally reached his destination. The grand stone arch that served as the main entrance to the Citadel loomed above him. Pausing, he took a moment to study the place that had been his home for the last year. He committed to memory every chalky stone wall and flying buttress, every flustered and scampering student, and every last inch of Thorne’s ruined armour collection that still dominated the school fountain.

Then he turned around and walked out of the Citadel for the last time.

He didn’t know what he expected to find at the end of this con, but the sadness that settled over his heart certainly wasn’t it. Growing up, Jon had never been one for sentimentality. When you were in the business of stealing, getting overly-attached was usually considered poor form, since anything and everything was fair game.

But he figured he’d miss life as Jon Snow, the enigmatic bastard son of an elusive Northern tycoon. He figured he’d miss the life he’d stolen for himself. If anything, it had been his first real achievement all on his own.

Outside, the city was teeming with activity. Locals hung around on their brownstone porches. Small town cars, the kind that could only be found on the crisscrossing wynds and alleys of Oldtown, wound their way around pedestrians, bikers, and skateboarders. Along the docks, a tourist group was getting on the ferry for a tour of High Tower. Everything was as it should be—save for him.

“What are we going to do now, huh, boy?” he wondered, ruffling Ghost’s fur as he took in the hustle and bustle of Oldtown before them.

“I can think of something.” A familiar voice cut through the air, and Jon almost wondered if his brain had short-circuited.

He spun around to find the speaker, his luggage clattering to the ground behind him. There had been a time when Jon Snow had been the guy behind the voice, the one with surprises up his sleeves. There had been a time when Jon didn't startle at the simplest of comments—when his heart didn't get caught in his throat and every nerve in his body didn't stand on end at the shock of being caught off guard.

But then again, Daenerys Targaryen always did have a habit of taking his breath away.

Perched on the base of the female sphinx with her hands tucked demurely underneath her, Dany could have easily been just another student of the Citadel. Anyone else happening upon the scene might have noticed her expensive wardrobe, accompanying chauffeur, silver-gold hair that made her nothing less than a Targaryen heiress, and assumed exactly that. But all Jon saw were the same violet eyes that have haunted his dreams from the moment they locked onto his all those years ago.

“Hi, Jon,” she said with a small, easy smile. “Did you miss me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> baeduan on tumblr


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, sorry for the delay, the holidays were busier than expected. But this chapter's a bit thicker than the last, so hopefully, that evens things out. Thank you for all the lovely comments.

In the end, it was Ghost who reacted first, barking excitedly at the sight of Daenerys sitting before them. He tugged his leash from Jon’s slack grasp and clambered on her lap as if he wasn’t a wolfdog almost the same size as her. Daenerys, for her part, seemed more than happy to indulge his dog’s antics, burying her face in his white fur with a laugh.

But Jon just stood there, gaping. He was vaguely aware of Daenerys cooing at Ghost (“Did you miss, boy? At least _someone_ did.”), but he otherwise stayed completely still.

He’d imagined this moment, of course. He’d gone over it, again and again, in his mind. Seeing her again, what it would be like, what he would say to her—these were the thoughts that plagued him in his loneliest nights at the Citadel, whenever he wondered if he’d made a grave mistake, leaving it all behind.

Now, at the sudden prospect of Daenerys before him, Jon found he was at a loss for words. In truth, there were a myriad of things he wanted to say to her, but he didn’t know where to begin. It’s good to see you? How is it possible you’ve gotten more beautiful? I’ve missed you? But as he weighed his options, he found himself crossed with an entirely different question. “What in seven hells are you doing here?” he demanded.

“It’s good to see you too, Jon,” Dany answered the unasked question with a dramatic hand to her chest, mocking affront. “I’m doing well, thanks for asking.”

“Dany…” He ran a hand through his hair. Was she here for a con? Was she even running cons anymore? Perhaps she’d grown bored of it already…

“I figured you and Ghost could use a lift.” Daenerys shrugged, scratching behind Ghost’s ears, who looked like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

At that, Jon looked around to find a miniature black town car parked at the side of the Citadel’s entrance. Sat in the driver’s seat was Barristan Selmy, hunched over the steering wheel, like he was some kind of giant, looking every bit as ridiculous as it would seem.

Jon frowned, eyes darting suspiciously back to Dany. “How did you know that I needed...”

He froze. It took him half a breath to connect the pieces together. The hooded figure in the security footage. His Direwolves keychain that had dangled from the Seneschal’s fingertips. The image of his school I.D. staring back at him.

Bloody hell.

Never, _never_ would Jon have guessed that Daenerys was behind his expulsion. Yet in hindsight of the sheer sophistication of such a prank, he definitely should have. Who else would’ve been knowledgeable and talented enough to frame a master thief but his former partner-in-crime?

“Seriously, Dany?” He sighed, levelling the Targaryen with a look. “You trashed his armour collection?”

“If I recall correctly,” she countered, a finger tapping thoughtfully against her chin. “That collection was donated by my uncle to be shared with his fellow scholars and historians, and not for some man to hoard it away because he wanted a taste of status and prestige. Technically, I did the academic world a favour."

She was on her feet now, striding towards him with a surety that no amount of money could ever afford. When they’d first met, he wondered if it was something that came with being a Targaryen, but he learned quickly enough that it wasn’t something that could be passed down, or even stolen.

“Aye, you’re an upstanding citizen,” Jon deadpanned.

“What can I say?” Daenerys lifted a shoulder. “I’m a model student at Queenscrown Institute now.”

“You’re the _only_ student at Queenscrown,” Jon retorted, recalling the fictionalized school they’d created to mollify her family in the off-chance that they asked.

She just hummed in response, a small smile tugging at her lips as if she were thinking the same thing. “You know, you never did say if you missed me or not.”

 _If you’re going to lie, do it well_. This was a lesson Lyanna Stark insisted upon, drilled into her son’s head from a young age. A lesson his brain seemed to conveniently forget whenever Daenerys was involved. Because when Jon said, “I didn’t,” her smile only got bigger.

“It really is good to see you,” she replied quietly, and Jon tried to ignore how painfully close she was. She was close enough that he could smell her perfume—some blend of Essosi flowers that likely cost more than everything on his person. His hands twitched at his sides, wanting to pull her in and commit the scent to memory.

He shook the thought away, remembering the situation he was in and how, exactly, he’d gotten there. Suddenly, he felt his frustration and confusion bubble up. All of his hard work—all the months it took just to get him into the Citadel—all of it had been taken from him in the span of an afternoon. And for what?

He scowled. “Why’d you do it Dany?”

“You don’t belong in that place.”

A small voice rang at the back of his mind; it whispered ugly things about his name, his history.

“That’s rich coming from you,” he snapped, harsher than he’d meant to be, and he immediately wished he hadn’t.

In an instant, the warmth in her eyes died. She jumped back from him, chagrined as if she’d forgotten herself. When she spoke next, her voice was cool and indifferent, the way it usually sounded when she humoured strangers who wanted to suck up to her family or, worse, her family.

Jon never thought she’d ever use it on him.

“I have something for you. A job.” When Jon opened his mouth to protest, she added, “One only _you_ can do.”

“I don’t do jobs anymore.”

“You’ll do this one.”

“I’m retired, Daenerys.” He sighed, running a hand over his face. “I’m out of the—”

“The family business, I know. You’ve made that very clear.” She turned from him, Ghost whining after her as she walked briskly towards Barristan’s car. For a moment, Jon wondered if she’d changed her mind, about whatever it was that brought her to Oldtown, then she called out, “But what about the family?”

* * *

**ABOARD THE TARGARYEN JET, SOMEWHERE OVER WESTEROS**

There were perks to travelling with a Targaryen heiress. This was not lost on Jon as they boarded the Targaryen Industries’ private jet.

Inside, the aircraft was a startling contrast to his bare-bones flat at the Citadel. The cabin was fully-furnished, with white leather lounge chairs, a four-seater dining area, and a minibar. The cabin door, which led to the kitchen and bedrooms, was flanked by two large flat-screen televisions, while the coffee table was littered with an assortment of Jon’s favourite snacks.

Ghost had sauntered aboard, looking perfectly at-home as he curled up in his old mattress. But Jon hadn’t been as eager.

The last time he’d been on this plane, they’d just finished a job in Myr. Daenerys had collapsed against him on the sofa, exhausted but grinning as she asked him what he wanted to do next. Jon had wrapped an arm around her, unable to muster up the courage to tell her that he was walking away for good.

Now, they sat on opposite ends of the lounge area. Daenerys was in the armchair, cool and relaxed, an inscrutable look on her face. Jon was on the sofa, sitting gingerly, not knowing how to act.

They hadn’t spoken since she picked him up at the Citadel. On the car ride over, Dany had chosen to take a nap in the backseat with Ghost, forcing Jon to sit shotgun. In the hour and a half it took to drive to Three Towers Airport, Jon had awkwardly caught up with Barristan, plotted his return to university, and strategized how to get the answers he desperately needed: ask nicely.

“Dany, tell me what’s going on.” He leaned forward, hoping the proximity might better convey his pleas. “Please.”

Daenerys ignored him. Instead she thrust a plate of Tyroshi honeyfingers in his direction. “Have a honeyfinger,” she said. “Barristan made them. He’s very proud.”

“You didn’t bring me here to sample Barristan’s pastries,” he reminded her.

“But would it be so bad if I did?” She grabbed a honeyfinger for herself, eyes shining mirthfully. “It’s a hell of a lot better than what you were doing before.”

“You make it sound like I was in prison.” He rolled his eyes, although he was glad to hear the coolness in her tone had subsided. Playful Daenerys, he thought, he could handle. Indifferent Daenerys was a whole other matter. “I was at school—being normal for once.”

Daenerys scoffed. “You could never have been normal at the Citadel.”

He crossed his arms. “I could’ve been happy there.”

“They expelled you, Jon.”

“Because _you_ framed me.”

Daenerys pursed her plump, pink lips for a moment, then lifted a shoulder. “Point taken.” She took a bite out of the pastry, slowly, as if to rankle him further, before she continued. “Anyway, I broke you out because I have something to tell you.”

“You couldn’t ring me for that?”

“It’s more of an in-person kind of message.”

Jon racked his brain for what could possibly be so important that she would fly to Oldtown just to tell him about it. His best guess was his mother and whatever new job she likely needed help with, but then he thought about his Nana. She’d been fine the last time he saw her, but a lot could happen in a year...

His eyes widened. “Oh, gods, is Nana okay?”

“Nana’s fine,” she replied quickly, voice certain and reassuring. “Could be better, but she’s still kicking. She’s actually why I’m here. She told me to tell you that the Citadel is an empty and soulless institution that would bleed you dry if you stayed there too long.”

“Daenerys…” Jon warned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Jon,” she mimicked with a roll of her eyes. But then she shifted in her seat and suddenly, the amused expression on her face dropped. After a moment, she said quietly, “She says she needs to give them back.”

That gave Jon pause. Who needed to give what back? Was his grandmother running cons again? “Give what back?”

“There was a job, Jon. Last week. In the Iron Islands.”

Jon’s brows furrowed. He opened his mouth to object, to insist that he hadn’t heard anything about any sort of job, especially one that was so seemingly important. But then he remembered just how far removed he’d been at the Citadel. Cut-off from his world and his family. He knew when campus security started their rounds, but this was beyond him.

“It was a private collection,” she went on. “Priceless doesn’t even begin to explain those paintings. Remote location, top of the line security—the whole nine yards. I can count on one hand the number of crews that could’ve done it, and—”

“And let me guess, my mum’s at the top of the list?”

Daenerys shook her head. “She _is_ the list.”

Jon stared at her, not understanding. “And? My mother is Lyanna Stark, Dany; she’s on every list. That comes with the territory. What makes this so special?”

“It’s special because the mark wasn’t just any mark, alright? The man with the paintings…” Dany struggled for words. “He calls himself Euron Crow’s Eye, and he’s a _bad_ guy.”

“Have you met my family? I grew up with bad guys.”

Daenerys let out a frustrated huff. “Listen to me,” she commanded, voice low but words desperate. Pleading, even. “This guy isn’t a bad guy like your family are bad guys—like _we’re_ bad guys. He’s a murderer, Jon. He mutilates his own people. If he doesn’t get his paintings back, what do you think he’ll do to your mother?”

Jon collapsed on the sofa, trying to wrap his mind around it all. When he ran away to the Citadel, he thought he’d seen everything this life had to offer. Now, in the span of a day, he’d not only been framed and expelled out of university, but his mother, who’d always seemed so mythical and untouchable in his young eyes, was about to lose her head.

“My mum used to be better than this,” he breathed out.

“She also used to have her son.”

* * *

**BRAAVOS, ESSOS**

It was easy enough to go unseen in Braavos—a fact that was perhaps the city’s greatest asset for a thief.

It was all rather ironic, Jon thought, that a city that never slept would become a crook’s best cover. But as he watched the daily goings-on of the city, the well-oiled machine of work and trade that filled up Braavos’ narrow streets and waterways, he couldn’t help but understand why. There was always something happening in Braavos—lives being lived, work being done, money being made. If you didn’t cause a little distress, no one would ever know you were there.

Despite all of that, it didn’t take Jon very long to track down his mother. For all that Braavos boasted in anonymity, it seemed Jon’s lifelong knowledge of Lyanna Stark’s habits was enough to trump even the busiest canals of the world-famous lagoon.

She was walking along Drowned Town when he saw her. Dressed in a long camel coat with the collar turned up against the cool Braavosi air, she might have been just another tourist taking in the sights. Even her Stark colouring—dark brown hair and grey eyes, much like his own—might have easily been overlooked in the melting pot that had become of Braavos.

But it was her gait that gave her away. He would recognize it anywhere. Confident and measured, never too fast or too slow. They were the steps of a lifelong thief, and a good one at that. The very same ones Jon had followed for most of his life.

He jumped from his spot outside an Asshai coffee house the instant he tracked it. Putting his cigarette between his lips, he elbowed past a line of eager customers to get to her. But when he finally managed to part the crowd, his mother was nowhere to be seen. He strode along the canal, scanning the area for where she might have gone.

In the last couple of decades or so, Drowned Town had been rebuilt and gentrified into a hub of arts and culture. Now overrun with hipsters and tourists alike, the once-sunken town was practically unrecognizable from the squalor it had famously been. The half-submerged towers and domes, which had once housed the city’s poorest citizens, were nowhere to be found. In their place were gimmicky restaurants, clothing stores, and obscenely expensive stone houses (despite looking no different from the significantly cheaper ones in Silty Town).

The area’s pride and joy, of course, stood right at its heart. The Braavosian Museum of Modern Art may have been built from the same grey stone as the ominous House of Black and White, but it looked anything but. Bright, colourful banners, which advertised its ongoing exhibits, hung from its parapets. Unruly high schoolers waited at its doors as their teachers attempted to finish roll-call. And there, on the steps of the museum, was his mother, standing with a group of tourists while a guide lectured about the building.

If his mother saw him approaching, she didn’t show it. She didn’t turn around to watch him wade through the hordes of sightseers and street performers. She certainly didn’t cry out a hello or pull him into a hug when he settled on the step beside her.

Instead she kept her eyes on the guide and said, “I thought I told you to quit.”

Jon grunted, putting out his cigarette with the heel of his boot. “It’s harder than it looks.”

“Harder than studying at the Citadel?” Lyanna lifted an eyebrow, finally gracing him with a smile. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class right now?”

“I’m out for spring break.” Jon shrugged, the lie rolling off his tongue far easier than the truth ever did for the Seneschal. “Thought I’d come see you.”

“Thought you’d come see if all the gossip was true.” His mother gave a sour chuckle, and Jon felt his face warm. “Who told? Nana? Dany? It was Dany, wasn’t it?” She shook her head, although Jon could hear the smile in her voice. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, love. I raised you better than that.”

“Aye, but if Nana’s worried—”

“Nana’s always worried.” Lyanna’s words sounded flippant enough, but her eyes held the same steely sheen they always did whenever her mother was brought up.

The falling out of Lyanna and Lyarra Stark was an oft-discussed topic among the Stark children. Sansa claimed it had something to do with whoever Jon's father had been. Robb was convinced that it dated back to the death of their uncle Brandon. But if Arya was to be believed, it somehow boiled down to both. And if those were the options he was working with, Jon didn't even want to begin suspecting.

“Look, I wasn’t anywhere near the Iron Islands last week.” She sighed as their guide ushered them across a minor waterway. “I couldn’t have been and I have proof.”

“You do?”

Slowly, as if she was just another tourist marvelling at the sights, his mother spun on her heel. By now, their guide had begun waxing poetic about the timelessness of Braavosi architecture, and if anyone were took look upon Lyanna, with her head tilted skyward, they might have assumed that she was taking in just that.

Yet when Jon followed his mother’s movements, he saw exactly why she’d done it. Behind them, on a newsstand, was her supposed alibi. Written in big, bold Braavosi Valyrian, the paper read:

** Art World News: Break-In at Braavos Sees Possible Arrest **

“So you couldn’t have pulled a job at the Iron Islands,” he started slowly, gauging his mother’s reaction for the truth, “because you were in the middle of one here.”

His mother grinned. “Told you I didn’t do it.”

Jon looked between the museum and his mother. “A bit small for you.”

“Aye, well…” Lyanna rolled her grey eyes theatrically. “I’ve had to slum it since my assistant quit a while back.”

Jon scoffed. His mother had never been one to let his absence stop her from doing what she wanted, a fact he was about to point out when something else occurred to him.

“If the job was last week, why are you still here?”

His mother cringed at getting caught, and it was at that rare show of chagrin that Jon finally understood.

He sighed. “It’s not over, is it?”

“Not until I have my prize.” Because the only thing worse than downgrading your cons was finding out you’ve downgraded with nothing to show for it.

“Where’d you stash it?”

“Somewhere safe,” she assured him.

Still, Dany’s warning about Euron echoed at the back of his mind, prompting him to say, “Maybe you should just leave it.”

“Oh, Jon, where’s the fun in that?” His mother grinned a very Lyanna-like grin. It was the same one his cousin Arya had inherited, full of life and mischief and trouble.

Jon shook his head, not sure whether to be amused or frustrated. “What’s the hold up then?”

“You tell me, kiddo.”

It was Jon’s turn to cringe as he followed her gaze and, once again, felt the acute embarrassment that came with slipping up.

On a berthed gondola, a man sat reading his newspaper, eyes periodically raising as if he was on the lookout for something else. Through the windows of a Qartheen restaurant, he saw two women not eating their food, eyes trained on the crowded street instead. Finally, he saw a man standing on the museum steps, staring openly at Lyanna as if he’d long given up the pretence of undercover surveillance.

“You’re popular,” he noted. “Who are they?”

“Night’s Watch.”

“ _Seriously?_ ” He whistled, impressed.

“Thought you’d like that.” An understatement if Jon ever heard one.

A far cry from the old, downtrodden death sentence it used to be, the Night’s Watch had since become one of the most esteemed international organizations in the Known World. Once made up of Westeros’ most disreputable denizens, the Watch now consisted of only the best that law enforcement had to offer, and saw to cases that reached far beyond the borders of its headquarters at the Wall.

“I wanted to be one of them.”

Lyanna chuckled. “You always were the black sheep of the family.”

The Titan of Braavos roared then, a loud grinding blast that signalled the start of the afternoon. In front of them, a crowd of high schoolers stempeded down the bridge, obscuring them from his mother’s new friends. Lyanna took it as an opportunity to finally face her son for the first time in a year.

“Listen to me, love.” She smoothed her hands over his hair and down his cheeks, before setting them atop his shoulders. A nervous tick among other things. “Let go of this Iron Islands thing. This Euron guy only cares about his paintings, and since I don’t have them—”

“He _thinks_ you have them.”

“But I don’t,” she said in that tone of hers that signalled the end of discussion. “And with my twenty-four hour tail, I doubt he’ll be brave enough to come for me. So stop worrying, I’ll be fine. Now, go back to school.”

He stared at his mother, stone-faced. Lyanna Stark was a liar, and a great one at that. Was she so good that she’d come to believe her own lies? Jon almost did.

But lying wasn’t the only thing Jon had learned at a young age. From the moment he was old enough to understand what his family did, he’d been taught that perception was a powerful thing. Sometimes, manipulating it was all it took to run a successful con. So it didn’t matter if his mother had Euron’s paintings or not. It only mattered that Euron _thought_ she did.

“Mum, you can’t just ignore this,” he started to beg, but the crowd began to thin, unbidden and unwanted. Pretty soon, his mother would disappear with them.

“Go back to school, Jon,” Lyanna insisted. “I never got to tell you, but it was a hell of a con.”

Jon opened his mouth to protest, but no sound came out. It would’ve been useless anyway. There was no stopping Lyanna Stark when she set her mind on something. So in the end, he just sighed and said, “Swear you’ll be careful?”

His mother smiled, touching his cheek once more. “On a heart tree.”

When the students finally moved away, the members of the Night’s Watch were shocked to find an empty spot where Lyanna Stark once stood. The spot beside hers was equally empty, but it wasn’t something they made note of.

* * *

It was a downpour by the time Jon had made it out of Drowned Town.

He shivered like a leaf as freezing rain hailed from the skies, soaking through his coat and down to his bones. He hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella, forgetting that spring in Braavos was entirely unlike the paradise that it was in Oldtown. It felt more akin to the coldness of the North, and the unwelcome feeling of it against Jon’s skin only made his world seem more off-kilter than ever.

He hadn’t felt this green since he was a boy, learning at his mother’s feet. When he left the family business, he’d been confident in his abilities, if not his place in the world. When he entered the Citadel, those same skills had helped him find his footing in a world that didn’t know better.

He never expected to lose those skills. Let alone miss them.

Now, as he stalked towards the Canal of Heroes, he found himself scanning every street corner with more fervour than he had in a year. He doubled down on every detail of the city, desperate to hone his skills back to something less laughable. He counted the number of people on his street (fifteen); the amount of suspicious, possibly illegal, activity in the area (four); and then pinpointed which ones might have meant him harm (one).

A sleek black motorboat with tinted windows sat at the edge of the Canal of Heroes. If its owner’s intention was subtlety, it didn’t work. Black was the colour of money in Braavos. It didn’t usually venture outside of areas like Purple Harbour, and when it did, it surely drew attention.

There was only one person in Jon’s life who could possibly own a boat like that. But he knew, without a doubt, that she was tucked away at home, which meant that...

The boat’s window slid open, and inside he saw a man that could only have been Euron Crow’s Eye. The man was well-dressed, pale, and dark-haired. He wore an eyepatch, which Jon assumed hid his namesake, and his one blue eye matched the hue of his shade-of-the-evening lips.

Daenerys was right. No person in their right mind drank shade-of-the-evening.

The man beckoned him over. When Jon didn’t budge, two goons appeared at his side, silent as a shadow. Their hands clamped around his shoulders with an iron grip, and when Jon tried to wrangle himself free, he heard a gun cock in response.

The walk over was eerily silent. There wasn’t a soul around who voiced a complaint. Not the people on the street, nor the gondola drivers at the water’s edge. In their eyes, this was a rich man’s problem, and they were all better off turning a blind eye to it.

Jon couldn’t blame them.

Not when he knew that the goons around him weren’t silent by choice. Not when the boat he’d been shoved in reeked of shade-of-the-evening and gods-knew-what else, and certainly not when the man behind it all looked like death himself.

Only when the steady hum of the engine had filled the motorboat did the man beside him speak. When he did, his voice was resonant and inevitable. “You caught on fast.”

“I’m retired, not blind,” Jon gritted out.

“I was told you had your mother’s temper.” A wicked grin marred his face, but his eyes were cold as he studied Jon. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jon Snow. My name is Euron Crow’s Eye.”

“What do you want?”

Euron gestured dramatically to his boat. “I thought I’d give you a lift to Purple Harbour,” he said, as if he was so helpful, but the thought that this man knew exactly where he was going only made Jon’s skin crawl.

“I thought I’d walk.” The rain pelted against the motorboat’s windows, muddying his view of the canal’s Sealord statues. Even then, Jon couldn't help but think trudging through it all would be preferable to a boat ride with the Crow’s Eye.

Euron cackled. “In this weather? I wouldn’t want you to get sick. Besides, I thought we might have a talk. Maybe pick up my paintings while we’re at it.”

“I don’t have your paintings,” Jon protested. “Neither does my mother. She didn’t do the job, and she’s got an alibi. You can check the news if you like—”

“I meant to have this talk with your mother,” Euron interjected. Somehow his whisper sounded more insidious than anything Jon had ever heard before. “But at the moment, she’s a little too well-guarded for my liking. So how lucky is it that her son and I should cross paths?” He smiled in a way that told Jon fate had nothing to do with any of it. “I want my paintings back, Jon Snow, and I have no problem ensuring that it happens. No matter the means. Do I make myself clear?”

Jon stared the Crow’s Eye. He’d heard the stories by now, of the man’s dealings in Asshai. He’d heard of his voyage through the Smoking Sea and across the ruins of Valyria. He knew about his crew of mutes and the mysterious disappearances of Euron’s own brothers. But none of them had seemed real until that moment.

Neither of Nana's and Dany’s fears had seemed real until then.

He felt his jaw set, his hand flexing at his side. “My mother can’t return something she didn’t fucking steal,” he pleaded.

“No?” Euron chuckled, like he knew something Jon didn’t. He cut his eyes at Jon, an ugly sneer forming on his lips. “Perhaps retirement wasn’t so good to you, after all.”

The boat slowed to a stop, and before he could be manhandled out, Jon quickly extricated himself from the vehicle.

“Two weeks, Jon Snow,” Euron called out from inside the boat. “Two weeks, then I will collect what is mine. Do let your mother know.”

Then the window slid shut, and the boat sped away, leaving Jon alone in the rain.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, just waiting for the hubbub of Purple Harbour to lull his nerves back to normality. But at some point, he fumbled for a cigarette and finally eased some of his agitation after several long, hungry drags. Then he headed to the port, bought a ticket, and boarded a seaplane bound for the Coastland. Although that too passed in a blur.

In truth, the only thing Jon could say he actually remembered was his conversation with the Crow’s Eye and the time he had to save his mother: Two weeks.

* * *

**BRAAVOSIAN COASTLAND, BRAAVOS**

It would come as no surprise that the place Daenerys Targaryen called home wasn’t what most people thought it was. It wasn’t her family’s penthouse in King’s Landing (too noisy), or their brownstone in Oldtown (too pompous), or even her birthplace and castle on Dragonstone (far too much dragon paraphernalia). In fact, of all the properties owned by the Targaryen family, there was only one place that would ever lay claim to the youngest Targaryen’s heart: the house with the red door that lined the Braavosian Coastland.

It was fitting, Jon thought as he approached the three-storey stone house, that the place Daenerys called home would defy everyone’s expectations because nobody really _knew_ Daenerys Targaryen.

Pulling out a pocket-sized bag of tools, he began tinkering with the tumblers of the house’s locks. A couple of definitive clicks later, he found himself breezing through the house with the same ease he always used to.

It was not as if the place had changed much in the year he’d been gone. The same beige stone still made up the structure. The same portrait of Aegon and his sisters still loomed in the main hall. The same quiet melancholy still hung in the air.

The only real difference, he noted, was the ten-foot tall statue of slender young man with a crooked grin that now stood in a corner of the library. It was, without a doubt, an original Malanon, although Jon had never seen one in person before; they were few and far between. But Daenerys seemed to have turned hers into a coat rack.

Ghost’s excited howls greeted him as he walked into the library. And despite the day he’d had, Jon found an affectionate smile tugging at his lips as the wolfdog licked at his wrist.

“Hi, boy,” he said, scratching Ghost’s head. “Were you good for Dany?”

He searched the room for her. His eyes hovered over the dozens of bookshelves that lined the perimeter of the room before they finally settled on the seating area.

Dany was sprawled across the sofa, looking more casual than Jon had ever seen her. She was dressed in a red Dragons hoodie and black pajama pants, her silver-gold hair splayed messily around her. In her hands was a book—some geography one Jon would never touch. He was pretty sure she’d read it twice already, but he suspected that was the case for every book in that room anyway.

“Says the guy who just broke into my house,” she noted drolly, not looking up from her book. “We have a doorbell, Jon.”

He rolled his eyes. “And schools have excused absences.”

Daenerys shut her book, a grin spreading across her face. “And he returns.” She looked him up and down, her brow arching slightly. “Did you swim here?”

But Jon didn’t want to talk about his journey over, at least not yet, so instead he said, “My mum didn’t do it, Dany.” He collapsed on the armchair across her, uncaring of his wet clothes. “She couldn’t have. Not unless she’s found a way to pull two different jobs, on opposite ends of the Narrow Sea, at the same time.

“She did Braavos?” Daenerys sat up, intrigued. Jon nodded. “And now…what, she can’t finish the job because she’s got a twenty-four-hour detail on her arse?”

“You could say that.”

“What’s her plan?”

Jon met her eyes. “What do you think?”

She let out a bitter laugh. “You bloody Starks…” she grumbled. “One of you won’t leave and one of you won’t stop leaving.” Jon flinched at that, because Daenerys wasn’t exactly wrong.

“Well,” his friend amended a moment later, “at least we know Lyanna didn’t do it. That should ease Nana’s worries, at least. Once she tells Euron, maybe—”

“He’s not going to take our word for it.”

Daenerys frowned. “You just said she has an alibi.”

“And he doesn’t believe it!” Jon cried, and it was as if he shot a gun in the room.

Daenerys’ face fell. Her violet eyes dimmed, her jaw ticked. And when she finally asked, “How would you know that, Jon?” her voice was already flinty with understanding.

“He was trailing Mum, but the Night’s Watch was around, so”—Jon hesitated for a beat—“he found me instead.” At Dany's stony expression, he added, “He gave me two weeks to get him his paintings, then dropped me off at the port. I was fine.”

“You got on a boat with him? Are you mad?” she bit out. She jumped from her seat to approach him, a flurry of hurried movements, but he didn’t miss the way her hands shook.“You were supposed to check on your mother, _not_ go on a boat ride with the fucking Crow’s Eye. You’re lucky he didn’t leave your body at the bottom of the canal.”

“I was fine.”

“You were fine?” Daenerys spat. “I told you he’s dangerous. I told you what he’s capable of. _Nana_ says he’s bad news, and Nana—”

“Nana knows best, I know,” Jon growled, rising up to meet her. “But what the fuck am I supposed to do, Dany? My mum didn’t take the paintings. Should I just wait around while Euron sics his goons on her? Frankly, the fact that she’s got the Night’s Watch tailing her is the only thing that feels good to me right now.”

The fire in her eyes faltered, and Jon was suddenly struck with the strangeness of it all.

When you run enough cons with someone, you get to know every detail of their acts. And in the four years since Jon had met Daenerys, he’d certainly gotten to know a great number of her expressions: bored, amused, angry, intrigued. But he’d never seen her look scared before.

Jon exhaled shakily, and for the first time in a year, he found the nerve to touch her. To take her face into his hands, pull her in, and brush his thumbs against her cheekbones. He thought he heard her breath hitch, although he could never be sure. And not for the first time, he wondered what would happen if he just leaned down and captured her lips in his.

“I’m fine, okay?” he said instead, voice barely above a whisper. “He just wanted to send a message to my mum. He thinks I’m… _useful_ to him.”

Dany’s hands circled his wrists, squeezing gently. “And when he finds out you’re not as useful as he thought you were?”

Euron’s warning lingered at the back of his mind. _Two weeks_. He had two weeks be as useful as he possibly could.

“He won’t,” Jon insisted, hoping that he sounded more certain than he felt. “Because we’re going to _give_ him his paintings back.”

“And how do you suppose we’ll do that?”

“Easy,” Jon said, even though getting the words out felt anything but. “We’re going to steal them for him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> baeduan on tumblr


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s back! I’m so sorry for the long wait. I’ve had the wildest year of mediocre highs and very low lows, which I’m sure is the case for a lot of people, but I digress. I wish you all good health and thank you for your kind words on the last chapter.
> 
> All my love to [my_inked_asterism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_inked_asterism) who practically had to handhold me throughout the writing process of this chapter. Giulia, thank you for all the chats and cheerleading and helping me make this presentable. You're the best.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter and please leave a comment if you can!

**13 DAYS UNTIL DEADLINE  
** **GOOD MASTERS PROPERTIES, ASTAPOR**

Jon never liked Astapor. When he was eight, he and his mother had lived there for seven months, shortly after his first run-in with the Night’s Watch. It was the longest they’d ever stayed anywhere, and Lyanna spent most of it running two-bit cons around the city while ignoring calls from Uncle Benjen. Jon spent the entirety of it trying to get his mother’s smiles to reach her eyes. It never quite worked; he never found out why.

This was the memory he tried to tamp down as he patrolled the Good Masters offices, dressed in a stolen janitor’s uniform. He couldn’t fail his mother this time. Not when there was a target on her back, and the only thing they knew about the person who’d put it there was _where_ they’d been. Which led them here—the only place in the world that had the plans to Euron’s home.

“For the record, I think this is a bad idea,” he declared, pushing a cleaning trolley into a blind spot by the empty conference room. He made a show of collecting the bin inside so as not to attract undue attention.

The office was a wide, open space with lots of windows and white walls blemished only by the shuffle of office workers. Thieves spend a lot of time in places like these (blueprints don’t appear out of thin air, despite what movies say), though it usually happens under cover of darkness. Luckily no one spared him a glance, too busy stressing over permits and land negotiations and construction drawings. To them, it was just another day at the office, and according to the company, if you’re breathing, you’re working.

“Your disapproval has been noted.” Daenerys’ voice crackled through the comm in his ear, light and comfortable.

“And promptly ignored, I see,” he said sardonically. “If this comes back to bite you in the arse, it’s not my fault, and I’m not taking the heat from Nana.” Jon paused a moment to let her think it over, glancing at the elevator’s ascending floor indicator. “If you turn around now, we can still Satanic Majesty our way in.”

“I’m not burning down a building full of innocent people, Jon.”

“Aye, I know,” he conceded with a sheepish grimace. “Sorry. I’m just…” He trailed off, the words _in over my head_ and _out of practice_ still too foreign to say out loud.

In truth, Jon hadn’t been nervous in the least while they planned this particular event. Not even when they boarded the plane from Braavos did he feel any agitation. Because jobs like these were simple; as a child, he’d all but done them in his sleep.

And yet, as soon as he entered the building and heard his shoes squeak against the lobby floors, dread had settled in his gut. Never before had he been the kind of person who wore squeaky shoes, the kind of person people saw coming. Now it was one of the laundry-list of things that weighed on him, reminding him that, whether he liked it or not, everything had changed.

That, somehow, the Citadel had stripped him of far more than just the larceny in his veins.

As though reading his mind, Daenerys suddenly said, “How many cameras are on his floor?” It was something of a tradition for them. A test to ease the nerves.

There was a split second pause before Jon answered, “Three.”

“How many entrances?”

“Two public, one private, three unofficial.”

“Exits?”

“Six.”

“Average time to the street?”

“Ten to fifteen minutes. Give or take.”

Daenerys hummed approvingly. “See, it’s just like riding a bike,” she whispered conversationally, like it naturally applied to breaking and entering.

Then, before Jon could say anything more, the lift doors slid open, and Daenerys strutted into the office, heels clacking against the hardwood with the resounding pulse of a time bomb. The game had begun.

* * *

Kraznys mo Nakloz was, as they say, only a businessman. More precisely, he was a real estate developer for the rich and discreet. He worked in a lavish skyscraper overlooking the Bay of Dragons, where employees worked under surveillance and company objectives consisted of the exploitation of struggling landowners through extensive and brutal acquisition schemes. In other words, he was a complete and utter tosser whose least intolerable quality was perhaps his proclivity for fine Qartheen silks.

He was, however, not an incompetent man. In fact, he was as reputable in the industry as he was disreputable morally—enough on both accounts to earn Euron’s paycheque. He built big ungodly things all over the world and saw it all as a status symbol, one that kept him and Ghiscari culture at the top even in a time dominated by Valyrian legacies.

Kraznys’ personality and business practices often conflicted with the ideals of his assistant, Doreah, but her degree in political science was getting her nowhere, her rent was costing an arm and a leg, and worse, she still had thousands in student loans to pay off. So she swallowed her pride and accepted what work she could get.

Today, that meant translating for Kraznys while he played host to Daenerys Targaryen.

It was an odd meeting, to say the least. After all, people with lineage and history as rich as the Targaryen family, who descended not only from Old Valyria but from the Breaker of Chains herself, didn’t associate with men like Kraznys mo Nakloz. No, people of the Targaryen family hosted charity balls or funded nonprofits. And if not, they at least had the good sense to keep up with such public pretences.

“Tell the Westerosi whore that if she’s lucky,” Kraznys told Doreah in Astapori when they reached the product room, “that dump of hers could look like one of these.”

He tapped a card to the door’s electronic reader and then, slipping it back into his jacket, waited as it revealed a small gallery of scale models—miniature versions of some of the most outrageous real estate in the world. There was the high-rise condominium in Qohor (built on stolen farmland), the casino in Yunkai (made with the cheapest labour possible), and the luxury resort in New Ghis (the plans to which may as well have been stolen since Kraznys fired all of his architects to claim the design as his).

“As you can see, Ms. Targaryen, with Good Masters Properties you can transform Summerhall into a leading name in hospitality,” relayed Doreah in the Common Tongue, rather contrite. She wasn’t at all prepared to pitch Daenerys Targaryen, who seemed so unlike the clients Kraznys usually dealt with (greedy old men with the age-old motives and vices). Daenerys looked so young and clueless, with her gauzy black tunic dress that screamed best-attempt-at-business-casual and big blank eyes that told Doreah she didn’t understand what was being said to her regardless of language—things which, Doreah worried, made her the perfect target for Kraznys’ business schemes.

Which, of course, wasn’t the case. Daenerys knew very well what they were saying; in fact, she could translate it in five other languages, if not for her cover.

There were a number of things she and Jon might have done to get the drawings for Euron’s home. They might have scaled the side of the high-rise, crawled through the air ducts—maybe even staged a potentially-rogue fire and evacuated the building. But ask any better than average criminal, and they’ll tell you the same thing: the easiest way to get something done is by simply walking through the front door.

“You didn’t happen to work with _Khal_ Drogo, did you?” Daenerys inquired, in that uppity ne’er-do-well tone that international jet sets had. “Because I was seeing him for a while, and all he ever talked about was that gods-awful hotel of his in Pentos, and how I should be so lucky to be with him. As if he’s so special for running one.”

Doreah whispered translations to Kraznys, who looked vaguely irritated as he watched Dany walk around the room, scrutinizing each model laboriously.

“It’s a _hotel_ ,” she continued snootily. “I stay in one all the time. How hard could it be?”

“Tell her to stop wasting my time,” Kraznys barked. “I’m a businessman, not a simpering fanatic.” He regarded Dany the way most self-righteous adults did young people, like she was an insipid child wasting his time. It’s probably why he didn’t notice the hand she expertly slipped into his jacket pocket as she passed him, snatching the plastic key card he kept there.

“What exactly do you want from us, Ms. Targaryen?” Doreah asked.

“Your expertise, duh. I want your help building something grand, something that would put Drogo’s business to shame,” Dany proclaimed. “Something like”—she paused for effect, then directed her interests to the model behind Kraznys: the apple of his eye, the resort in New Ghis—“that.”

There was a glimmer in Kraznys’ eyes as he launched into a long boast about the resort’s success and his hand at it. And the instant his back turned to her, Dany discreetly held the card against the RFID cloner in her purse and waited as the signal was transmitted to Jon.

* * *

At that precise moment, if you happened to be looking at Kraznys’ office, you would have seen a janitor use a non-company-issued key card to open the door. Unfortunately for Kraznys, the security guards on the first floor were wholeheartedly watching the football match, and if the staff—whose poor working conditions were implemented by Kraznys—saw something, they didn’t say a word.

“I’m in,” Jon said, glancing around the office. It was a garish show of wealth, with dark glossy panels lining the far wall, gaudy light fixtures dipping from the ceiling, and gold-accented furniture. But the kicker, Jon thought, was the rustic statue of the harpy of Ghis standing imperiously by the windows.

“You’re so getting disowned,” he concluded, telling Daenerys about the statue.

He knocked about the room in search of Kraznys’ safe. The panelled wall, it turned out, doubled as a storage unit, and a sketch of a smile lined his face when he heard a hollow promise at the back of the cupboard. “Seven hells, he’s predictable,” grunted Jon as he removed the backing, revealing a safe about the size of a small refrigerator.

And the optical scanner right at its centre.

“It’s a fingerprint lock,” he mumbled, dumbfounded.

“What was that?” Dany said to Jon, though Doreah repeated whatever she was saying anyway.

“He’s got a fucking biometric lock,” he repeated dully. He had expected some standardized office safe for climate control and fireproofing. Maybe an electronic one with a charged solenoid he could pull open with a magnet, or something mechanical he could stick a dialler on. A fingerprint lock, though, meant somehow getting Kraznys to personally open it without catching them red handed, which was, of course, impossible.

Daenerys didn’t say a word, unable to help even if she wanted, so he added, perfectly resigned:

“Fuck. Give me a minute.”

Jon dove for the desk and rummaged through the drawers, coming up with a roll of tape and model adhesive. His mind was eerily silent as he worked—scouring the sleek tabletop for fingerprints, lifting the cleanest ones he could find, coating them in a thick layer of glue. It was like some fight or flight response he forgot had been ingrained in him, and before he knew it, he was holding the mould-like contraption over his cigarette lighter, binding the print ridges and the adhesive together into a gel.

With bated breath, he held the gel thumbprint to the optical scanner. There was what seemed like a years-long pause before a resounding buzz sounded and the words ‘INCORRECT. TRY AGAIN. ATTEMPTS REMAINING: 2’ scrolled through the screen.

Cursing, Jon tried the index fingerprint and waited. In his ear, he could hear Kraznys blathering on about his resort and how it had won an international luxury award, while Daenerys made noncommittal hums at appropriate times. It was all classic distract-and-grab, though it did nothing to ease Jon’s nerves.

Suddenly, there was an affirming beep and the sound of the lock unlatching. Jon pulled the door open and gaped at his handiwork. Inside was a small stack of cash, some paperwork, and of course a large bundle of plastic tubes holding the answers to some of the most expensive buildings in the world.

Quickly, he fumbled around for Euron’s prints and tried not to laugh at how ridiculous he must look. Painstakingly hunting for one set of prints when he had the mother lode at his feet. When, once upon a time, he wouldn’t have hesitated to take all of it.

He had just found the tube marked as Euron’s, had just verified its contents and felt himself bask a little in his success when he heard it.

“Ms. Targaryen, I’m afraid to cut this short, but Mr. mo Nakloz has another appointment…”

Jon scrambled to his feet, sliding the blueprints into his own case and putting the empty one back inside. “Stall,” he ordered, closing the safe. “I’m still in here.”

“Tell me, Mr…Nachos,” he heard Daenerys blurt out. “What assurances do I have that you’ll deliver everything I want?”

“Ms. Targaryen,” Doreah said diplomatically, “we’ve overseen some of the finest construction and urban planning in the world. I assure you we’re more than capable of executing your vision—”

“This isn’t some pet project or inconsequential plot of land,” Daenerys intoned in her most condescendingly posh accent just as Jon replaced the cupboard’s backing. ”This is to be a Targaryen venture in _Summerhall_.”

There was a hesitant murmur from Doreah, then Kraznys spat out an angry and complicated string of Ghis-heavy Astapori, of which Jon understood very little, though it was sure to be very demeaning, offensive, and most importantly, drawn-out enough for Jon to put the room back the way he’d found it and make himself scarce.

* * *

By the time Dany left Good Masters Properties, Jon was already back in his street clothes, sitting in the driver’s seat of their rental. Getaway ready. He was drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, an innocent enough gesture to passing pedestrians, but Dany saw it for what it really was—the nerves of a thief after a year-long retirement.

“Well?” she prompted, once they were out of the building’s periphery and parked several blocks down the road.

“Just like riding a bike.” Jon brandished a leather-bound barrel at her.

For a second, Dany wondered if she saw a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he might have smiled when he said it. But it vanished as quickly as it came, if at all, and she chalked it up to the part of her that wanted him to miss this. To miss _them_.

“Here.” He spread the drawings across the console. Most of them were aerials: floor plans, ductwork, framing systems—a mess of lines and calculations that looked nothing short of a labyrinth. But the elevation and cross section views gave a good approximation of how it all came together.

Euron’s home wasn’t so much a house but a maximum security prison.

“So much for that bike,” she muttered, perusing the materials schedule, a concoction borne of excessive security and self-importance. She glanced over at Jon. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

His eyes darted between her and the prints, before they settled on her, baffled. “That you’d have to be a bloody idiot to break into that?”

“Or a bloody genius.”

Jon clamped his eyes and fell back against the headrest, a rueful groan escaping him. “Right then,” he grumbled and started the car.

* * *

 **12 DAYS UNTIL DEADLINE  
** **THE LION’S DEN CASINO RESORT, LANNISPORT**

There is a secret that casinos keep that make them an ideal playground for a thief. You would think, with all their vaults and cameras and security guards, that it’d be the opposite, but that’s merely part of the lie.

The secret is this: casinos are not the mark; they are the thief. Being the mark is only an act—a cover that gets people through those large shiny doors and drunk on the thrill of spinning every wheel and rolling every die. Casinos make people feel alive. They make them feel lucky. People look to the nights that they won and think they can cheat the house again, but that just makes them careless. It makes them easy targets.

If Jon had any doubts about this theory, all he had to do was look around The Lion’s Den Casino as he and Daenerys strolled through its lobby. Most casinos had a flair for the ostentatious, but there was something wholly majestic and extravagant about Tywin Lannister’s pride and joy. The place was a symphony of never ending sounds, lights, and colour. Life-sized marble lion statues stood guard along the glass double doors. Gold-painted walls met blood-red carpeting riddled with swirls of gold psychedelic designs. Elaborate twisting staircases led up to the hotel, while on stage, jazz legend Chataya performed her greatest hits.

The whole place was opulence personified, a small taste of the unattainable which kept people coming back for more. Jon thought it a testament to Tywin Lannister’s capitalist machinations, perhaps even the perfect con, but Dany seemed to regard it all with more than a hint of dismay.

He quirked a brow at her. “Not a fan of casinos?” he asked, trying not to be hyper-aware of the way she’d looped their arms together and leaned against him. The way it felt like the most natural thing in the world, being with her at one of the most notable honeymoon resorts on the west coast.

Daenerys made a face. “Not Lannister ones,” she admitted. “Come on. Tables are this way.”

Jon let her lead him through the casino floor; it was allure and mistakes galore: blinking neon lights, exciting jingles, clusters of games at every turn. He kept an eye out for a friendly face, though he didn’t see one, too overwhelmed by the colourful band of stragglers that hopped from game to game in some kind of mindless euphoria.

Jon tightened his hold on the case. “This is where geniuses hang out these days?” His voice was barely loud enough to be heard over the din, but his disapproval was hard to miss.

“As opposed to committing fraud at university?”

“Some people appreciate the value of an education and the wonders of everyday life.”

“Very sweet.” Daenerys stopped at the edge of the casino pit and looked at him, amused. “You should send that in to the _Oldtown Review_. They’ve got a section for people like you.”

Jon couldn’t help himself; he bit back a smile and said, “I know.”

There was a moment’s pause before she turned to him, sheer astonishment playing across her features. “I don’t suppose you’ll share it with little old me.”

“We get this done for Mum, and I just might.”

“Deal.”

They turned back to the pit and scanned the blackjack tables. One of them had gathered a significantly larger crowd than the rest as someone played a hot streak. Spectators were on their toes, cheering, betting, revelling in drunken humanity, all while a man—stocky and well-dressed—nicked their wallets and jewelry.

At another table was a broad-shouldered man playing against the dealer. In a simple black suit, the man was dressed too unremarkably to be considered a mark by an ordinary thief, but Jon would never miss the way he moved. The way he stretched his arms and interlocked his fingers at the small of his back, perfectly timed with the dealer’s actions—just like Uncle Benjen taught them.

“Seven bloody hells,” Jon muttered, when, not a minute later, a dark-haired girl in a red Westerlands University hoodie stumbled onto the table. She slurred a greeting to the dealer, drink sloshing messily in her hand.

Daenerys grinned. “This ought to be good.”

“Ten thousand!” Drunk Girl demanded as she slammed her money onto the table.

The dealer didn’t miss a beat. He converted her money into chips, with only a slight eye roll as if spoiled, intoxicated college kids were a regular part of his job.

Drunk Girl scrambled onto her seat, swaying around so dangerously that the broad-shouldered man had to pull out the metal straw from her drink.

“Watch out,” he warned gruffly. “That’ll go through your eye like a needle.”

_Needle._

That was it. The running count. Plus sixteen.

Almost immediately, Drunk Girl’s eyes darkened, focused. Despite her still-swaying form and slurred words, her eyes tracked each new card with an easy focus that seasoned players could only dream of.

Jon watched with rapt attention, unable to shake the memory of sitting in his grandmother’s kitchen, watching as that very same focus was honed to perfection.

So: he wasn’t surprised when the dealer flipped a card and announced, “Blackjack!” earning a smattering of applause from spectators. Nor was he shocked when the decks began to empty, yet the girl’s chips continued to stack up. And when the deck began to cool, Jon certainly wasn’t surprised to see the girl feign boredom and demand that the dealer colour up.

Jon and Dany stayed in the pit’s periphery as the girl lumbered out of her seat, a rack of chips in hand, and approached the casino teller. Only when the girl successfully cashed in her winnings did they follow. And only when the girl was safely out of the casino’s line of sight, and her gait had straightened perfectly against the concrete pavement, did Jon finally speak.

“Hello, Arya.”

* * *

The three of them ate dinner outside Ilyn’s House of Payne, a medieval-themed fast food joint overlooking the Sunset Sea. It was well past midnight; Lannisport was misty and cool, the casino buzz had muted to a comforting lull down the street, and for the first time in a year, Jon's world felt almost normal again.

Almost.

Even though sitting at a fast food joint, eating greasy, post-con burgers, with Daenerys and Arya looked about as close to home as he was going to get, he couldn't deny that something had invariably changed between them. He and Arya used to be thick as thieves, closer to siblings than actual cousins. But now she sat across him, pointedly ignoring his existence while she chatted easily with Dany.

“How's your dad handling retirement?” Daenerys asked casually, the way one talked about the weather.

Jon felt as if the rug had been pulled out from under him. "Uncle Ned retired?"

For all of his mother’s quips about Ned Stark being too honourable to be a thief, his uncle was, by far, the most steadfast and reliable member of their family. He had none of Lyanna’s stubbornness nor Benjen’s too-easy going temperament, and Jon always assumed he would eventually take over Nana’s mantle. The confirmation otherwise was more startling than he cared to admit.

“Surprisingly well now that Mum's stopped nagging him about it,” Arya told Daenerys, mouth half-stuffed with a cheeseburger and chips. “They're on a cruise with the boys.”

“He’s _fifty_ ,” he groused.

Arya rolled her eyes. “He’s basically been retired since Rickon was born. Only, he had the decency to stick around while he was at it. Unlike some people…” She glared balefully at him. “What are you doing here anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be at study hall?”

And there it was—the source of all this coldness.

Jon would be lying if he said he expected this reaction from her. Of anyone in his family, he figured Arya would be the one to understand why he had to leave, why he had to steal a little piece of normal for himself. Because hadn’t she wanted the same thing? Perhaps they had been mere musings at the time, but Jon remembered the girl who dreamt of being anything and everything all at once—a mathematician at Myr, an architect at Meereen, a High Septon at King’s Landing.

He had half a mind to point this out, but he knew that it would only provoke her, and a fight with Arya was the last thing they needed. Instead he blurted out a withdrawn and embarrassed, “What, I can’t come home for break?”

Arya was dead faced. “I don’t know. Couldn’t you?”

He looked to Dany for back-up, but she merely popped a chip in her mouth and reclined in her seat. “Sorry, babe,” she drawled. “This is all you.”

Jon exhaled at length. It felt unnatural, being in this position with Arya, like a gear that had rusted over and struggled to keep turning. He found himself wishing for a cigarette—something to tide over his nerves, ground him back in familiarity—though he settled for the cylindrical case in his hands. It seemed to grow colder and heavier by the second, reminding him of what was at stake.

At that moment, Arya’s anger was the least of his problems.

"Arya.” His voice was patient but firm. “We need your help."

Without batting an eye, she replied, “Sorry, I’m busy,” looking decidedly unapologetic.

“I’m serious, Arya. This is important.”

“So what I do isn’t important, then?” she said testily.

He was vaguely aware of Daenerys chuckling into her food, but all he could focus on was Arya, and the fact that he was having this conversation, with her, of all people.

“For fuck’s sake, you’re counting cards with Gendry and Hot Pie!”

“Hey,” Arya snapped. “Don’t bring them into this. They didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Like they didn’t do anything wrong in Dorne?”

“They didn’t know she was a septa!”

Jon opened his mouth to counter but before he could utter another word, a voice echoed down the street. “Arya, there you are,” Gendry said as he jogged towards their table, stopped suddenly, and looked from Arya to Dany and finally to Jon. “Oh, hi…”

“Hey, Dany’s here! And so is Jon!” Waving beside Gendry, two newly-snagged Rolexes peeking under his sleeve, was Hot Pie. It wasn’t his real name, obviously. No one knew his real name. Not even Gendry, who seemed permanently attached to his hip. Jon had asked about it once, but they just stared at him with the same blankness they reserved for the cloaks. He never brought it up again. “Hey, isn’t Jon supposed to be at—” Hot Pie stopped at a pointed look from Gendry then hastily did “school” in very poor sign language.

As if it would have stopped Jon from understanding.

Jon tried to tell himself that it was the chill of the night air that burned at his cheeks, that he didn’t care what the others thought. Still, he couldn’t help the relief that bubbled in his chest when Dany nodded at Gendry and asked, “How’s the shoulder?”

“S’alright,” Gendry said, looking chagrined as he rolled his right shoulder around. He pulled Hot Pie along to sit on either side of Arya. “That Volantene doctor fixed me right up. But I’m _never_ rowing again.”

“And the next time we get chased by the coast guard?” Arya challenged, because _of course_ the coast guard regularly factored into their decision-making. “What happens then?”

“Hot Pie can do it!”

Hot Pie looked affronted. “You're the one built like a bull!”

“Guys!” Jon intervened, though what he truly longed to do was ask about Volantis.

The job they did in Volantis.

The job they did without him.

The thought shouldn't be so jarring. Leaving the family business hadn't been a decision he made lighty; he knew this would happen eventually. But sitting among his old crew, the odd man out for once, he couldn't help but wonder at the number of jobs he must have missed since he left for school. How many new stories had been whispered in Nana's kitchen? How many new jokes will he never understand now that he'd traded in that life for the Citadel?

A lot could happen in a year. It was practically a lifetime for a thief.

“We’re not here to reminisce about old cons,” he forced himself to say. “We’re here because we need your help.”

Gendry’s brows shot up, intrigued. “Is it a job?”

Daenerys exhaled a half laugh. “Not your typical one,” she offered just as Jon said, “It’s more of a consultation.”

“We’re not interested,” Arya insisted, petulant, which meant she was definitely interested, but she was still going to fight him on it.

“Oi, speak for yourself!” Gendry said hotly, his Fleabottom brogue coming on stronger than ever, while Hot Pie tried to cover Arya’s face with his hands to keep Jon from listening to her.

“Remember when you both asked me to be the brains of this crew?” Arya smacked Hot Pie’s hands away and glared at her companions. “This is me being the brains.”

“Remember when you ran me over with your car and I decided not to press charges?” Gendry shot back, and Arya rolled her eyes.

“That happened _once_. I barely even grazed you.”

“I rolled off the side of your hood.” Gendry raised his brows in the universal sign for _you owe me_ , and after a rather long and silent showdown, Arya finally caved.

“Fine, I’ll bite.” She heaved an overly dramatic sigh and set her burger down to show that she was serious. “What’s the target?”

“Art,” said Jon.

“Private collection,” added Dany.

His cousin grinned at the Targaryen heiress. “Yours?”

“You wish.” Daenerys grinned back, sending their group into a round of laughter and lighthearted chatter about subjects close to their hearts (read: robbing Daenerys’ family).

Jon took this as a cue to clear their food and unroll the drawings across the wooden tabletop. Almost immediately, silence descended over them, the air crackling with something like thrill and uncertainty, as they huddled together to study what was perhaps the most inaccessible home any of them had ever seen.

Gendry looked up. “Are these the Unsullied 560s?” He was clearly trying to sound calm, but the catch in his breath said otherwise.

Daenerys huffed mirthlessly. “Ha—well, only the best for you lot.”

Hot Pie whistled. “These are impossible to break into,” he murmured with a deflated sigh. “In my professional opinion, I’d say it’s a pass.”

But it wasn’t their opinion Jon was after. As brilliant as the boys were, it was Arya’s mind he wanted to pick. Arya, with her head full of numbers, algorithms, and sequence alternatives. Arya, who had once hacked the Faceless Men database and befriended some of the most infamous black and white hat hackers in the world, much to Catelyn Stark’s horror.

“You lack vision,” Arya reprimanded Hot Pie, eyes still trained on the blueprints. "It’s tricky, but not impossible.” She looked between Jon and Daenerys, a mixture of disbelief and delight playing across her features. “You two are hittin’ this?”

He shook his head. “Someone’s already done that for us.”

There was a collective “Aunt Lyanna?” and Jon threw his hands in the air.

“Why does everyone think that?” he exclaimed.

Dany placed a cool hand on his shoulder, always the sensible one, and told Arya, “What we need to know is _who_ hit it.”

“Who hit _this_?” Arya gawked at the drawings. “It’s not a big list, I’ll give you that.”

“Good. Get it to us as soon as you can,” she replied, slapping her palms against the tabletop as if closing the discussion. She turned to Jon. “We ought to—”

Jon stood up. “Places to be.”

Arya appraised them, then, in a way that suddenly made her seem more an annoying teenager and less a master criminal.

“Still got that telepathic thing going on, huh?” she mused.

Daenerys shrugged. “I’ll see you soon, snoopy.” She leaned down to wrap an arm around Arya, then ruffled Hot Pie’s and Gendry’s hair affectionately. “Get us those names.”

Hot Pie half-heartedly swatted at her hand but gave a big smile anyway. He tapped the prints. “Can we keep these?”

“Aye, we’ve got copies.” Jon moved to follow Daenerys but hesitated for a tick then murmured, “Thanks…for doing this.”

He was already walking away when he heard Arya call out, “That’s it? You’re not even gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

He stopped, turned on his heel, and looked at her. “Nothing’s wrong,” he lied, the instinct to protect her, to shield her from a man like Euron, like second nature.

“You shouldn’t bullshit a bullshitter.” Her grey eyes were fierce with reproach, but then her gaze shifted down, and suddenly she was his baby cousin again, young and vulnerable. “You wouldn’t have come back if everything was fine.”

Jon felt his heart squeeze, because she was probably right, although they would never know for certain.

“Have you heard of the Crow's Eye?” The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “He’s after Mum.”

Arya’s head snapped up, eyes wide with alarm, mouth set in a grim line. “I’ll get you those names, I promise,” she said, soft but full of conviction.

“I know you will.”

A small, awkward silence passed between them. Arya opened her mouth, then closed it as if debating whether to say something. When she ultimately didn’t, Jon forced himself to say his goodbyes and turned to leave once again.

He only got a couple steps down the sidewalk when he heard the rhythmic stomp of shoes hitting pavement. He whirled around to find Arya launching herself into his arms. Immediately, he enveloped her in a hug that lifted her from her feet, his heart bursting with something like love and happiness and relief all at once.

“I’m still mad at you,” she mumbled even as her arms tightened around him. “But I’m really happy you finally came home.”

Jon hugged her harder. “Me too.”

* * *

 **11 DAYS UNTIL DEADLINE  
** **WESTERLANDS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, LANNISPORT**

It was morning by the time they arrived at the airstrip situated on the opposite end of the city. The sun had just begun to peak over the rugged hills that lined Lannisport’s eastern skyline—a tapestry of rich reddish pink hues that made sailors uneasy—and the wind was beginning to corral around them, cool and bracing, reminding Jon of his time in Braavos.

Of the dwindling time they had to save his mother.

Daenerys didn’t look phased in the least, taking in the breeze with a contented smile, always more at home around open water.

“We need eyes and ears at Pyke,” said Jon as they crossed the slick tarmac towards the Targaryen jet, for the first leg of their journey to the Iron Islands. “Someone who knows the area.”

“Done.”

“Someone who can lay low, blend in, ask around if anyone saw something,” he went on absently. “What about Cotter? Do you reckon he’s in town?”

“Which one’s he again?”

“Ironborn bloke with the—” Jon gestured ambiguously to his forehead.

“Dracula hair?”

“Aye, and the—”

“Attitude problem, right.” Daenerys nodded, catching the barely-formed thought, like always. “Yeah, no. He’s dead.”

“No shit. On the job?”

“Fell off sightseeing at Eastwatch.”

“What about the Greyjoys?” he tried again, wrinkling his nose at his options. As much as he liked Yara, who was about the only reliable member of the Greyjoy clan, he’d rather join Cotter at Eastwatch than work with Theon and his brothers again.

She shook her head. “Prison.”

“All four of them?”

“The holidays got a bit out of hand.”

Jon ran a hand through his hair, a knot of frustration forming in his gut. “Fine, what about—”

“I said it’s done, yeah?”

He halted in place and stared at Daenerys. “Define _done_ ,” he pressed, but she just kept walking, nonchalantly tossing her moonbeam hair over her shoulder.

“Handled. Taken care of.”

“How?”

“My winning personality, I suppose.” She turned slightly to shoot him a sly smile, but when he didn’t budge, she sighed. “I’ve got a friend on it.”

He jogged forward and fell into step beside her. He tried to keep his voice even when he asked, “What friend? Do I know them?”

“Does it matter?”

“You can’t just recruit anybody you want, Dany,” he said far too quickly. “This job is different. We need people we know, people we can trust. Whoever this friend is—”

“Is more than capable of doing basic recon.” Daenerys stopped suddenly and faced him, violet eyes narrowed, arms crossed over her chest. “Do we have a problem, Jon?” she asked, not a modicum of humour left in her voice.

“I’m just wondering who this friend is,” he said awkwardly. “Did they do the Volantis job with you lot?”

“The Crag,” she corrected. There was an edge to her voice, a sharp tug at the end of her words that only made him flush deeper. “We did a job at the Crag.”

“Oh.”

Daenerys considered him thoughtfully. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet but resonant. “You were the one who left, Jon.”

He hung his head. “I know.”

"You were at the Citadel.”

“It was only for a year.”

“That’s a long time for people like us,” she said, softly, as if she’d long since resigned herself to the idea. “Besides,” she added, a hand coming up to gently brush over his cheek, “your heart hadn’t been in it long before you decided to leave.”

“But I’m here now—”

“You left a lot of people behind when you went to school, you know,” she said, looking towards the sea. She didn’t sound unkind, just matter-of-fact, but the words made his stomach drop all the same. He thought of the quiet loneliness that haunted the house with the red door, of the night they’d met four years ago, and he knew, then, that he was just another person in Daenerys’ life that left her behind.

“I understand why you did it, truly.” She met his eyes again. “But if this is going to work, we need to be a team, which means you need to trust me. What do you say, Jon?”

There were a lot of things he might have said in that moment, to repair the damage he’d wrought between them, to remake his place in her life.

 _I’m sorry for leaving_ , he might have said.

 _I came home and I’m not going anywhere_ , he might have promised.

Instead, he settled on what he knew best. The easy half-truths that got things done in their line of work:

“Lead the way.”

Because these promises he made—they rarely kept.

Two years ago, they had been fresh out of a job in Dorne—a once in a lifetime grab at the crown jewels—when the thought of leaving finally wormed its way into his head. And he said no; his crew needed him, his family needed him, his mother’s keeper. He told himself it was enough—the memories they got to make, the lives he got to borrow, the fleeting moments in between he’d gotten to reclaim himself in peace.

He left anyway.

* * *

**PYKE, IRON ISLANDS**

“No. Absolutely not.”

Their ferry from Banefort had barely docked at Lordsport when the words escaped Jon. He looked towards the pier, then back to Daenerys, and wondered if she was pulling his leg, or if she’d gone mad altogether.

“This is no time to be picky,” Daenerys informed him, which was true, but still.

“You know what he’s like,” he implored with a shake of his head. Thieves may not have much in regard for rules, but Jon was adamant about the people he preferred to work with, and Robb Stark was decidedly not one of them.

“I can hear you,” his cousin sang from the dock, where he’d been flirting with the ticket lady.

Robb looked no different from the last time Jon saw him, all tousled auburn curls, rugged good looks, and a runaway mouth, courtesy of far too much time spent with Theon Greyjoy. Even now, despite the early morning, he smiled at the ferry passengers as if he were a bottle of pop that had been shaken rather than stirred.

Jon couldn’t help but approach with bad grace.

Robb smirked. “Not happy to see me, Jonny boy?”

It hadn’t always been like this; he and Robb used to be friends. But families—or more precisely, family businesses—were bizarre things in nature. They bred resentments and aggravated already-complicated relationships. And while the Starks had never been a particularly ordinary family, this was a problem not even they could con their way out of.

“Robb.” He nodded jerkily. “Long time. Figured you were still in Tarth. Defrauding the elderly.”

“And I thought you were in a fraternity. Seems we’re both wrong.”

“Play nice, boys,” scolded Dany, moving past Jon on the walkway. “We have a job to do, remember?”

When Robb caught sight of her, he instantly summoned all of his Tully charm into a proper welcome. “Hey, gorgeous,” he said, pulling her into a bear hug that seemed to stretch endlessly.

Daenerys laughed, soft and sweet. “Hi, Robb.”

“Where’s Ser Grandfather?”

“Dog sitting.”

“And he didn’t invite Grey Wind?”

Something flashed between the two of them—understanding or affection, Jon wasn’t sure, but it caused him a sense of panic. He had just been reunited with Dany, who was his best friend and partner-in-crime. But already, Robb seemed to be coming into the picture.

It was a crazy thought, and he tried to push it out of his mind. It hardly mattered to him anyway, even if Dany seemed to smile more in the mere minutes they’d had with Robb than in the day he’d had with her. Even if Robb did have all the makings of an ideal Targaryen partner.

Robb had a certain draw, after all, a magnetism most would kill for. It was what made him an excellent grifter. He could con just about anyone, with only a smile or a wink or a shameless little flex, and none would be the wiser. He lived on easy smiles and polished charm and took on trouble as it came.

But Jon could never afford to take such liberties, despite his best efforts. Perhaps it was an unfortunate byproduct from the man he was supposed to call father. Perhaps it was the result of having been brought up by a mother who needed just as much parenting as he did. Either way, he knew all too well where he ended and life began.

“We’re here for work, yeah?” His words came out sharper than intended, and Robb responded by theatrically looping his arm through Daenerys’ to steer her inland, leaving Jon to trail along like some kind of third wheel.

“Where’s Sansa?” he heard Daenerys ask Robb as they made their way through the city Euron Crow’s Eye called home.

Pyke was something of an afterthought for the average Westerosi. Plagued with near-constant storms and complete inaccessibility to anything other than seafaring, it didn't see much in the way of tourism let alone migration. Abandon had only gotten worse when the capital relocated to Harlaw, after the last remnants of the original castle had finally washed away. These days Pyke teetered somewhere between quaint and dilapidated, overrun with rugged, antiquated buildings and ageing infrastructure.

But there was quiet on the island, a little piece of solitude you’d be hard pressed to find elsewhere. Jon supposed that was reason enough for a man like the Crow’s Eye to settle there.

Robb shrugged. “On a job at the Vale. Something about a little finger.”

“Is that a euphemism for something?”

His cousin shuddered visibly. “I didn’t wanna ask.”

“Since when do you not pry?” Daenerys scoffed, well aware of Robb’s propensity for gossip.

“Since I was too busy getting you a present.” Robb flashed her a full-wattage grin. In an instant, a stack of photos slipped from his hand and appeared in Daenerys’ coat pocket.

The pass was easy. Imperceptible. The work of someone who clearly never left the family business.

* * *

The Red Jester was a gastropub in the heart of downtown Pyke. A hole-in-the-wall by most standards, it was nothing short of an Iron Islands institution, a place that was home to everyone from city officials to criminals (which aren’t always very distinct), and as Robb claimed, the best chicken curry north of the Dornish Marches. To that end, Jon and Dany found themselves dragged into a booth and piled with half the breakfast menu till they could no longer go on.

“You couldn’t get any closer to the house?” Daenerys was flipping through the images, angling them for Jon to see. Zoomed-in shots of a building complex they’d only seen as estimations on paper.

Across the booth, Robb snorted into his drink. “You mean the _fortress_?” he muttered derisively. “Seriously, who owns a castle these days?”

“Dany does.” Jon tipped his head at Daenerys, who shrugged in a so-so sort of way.

“Whatever.” Robb waved them off. “The place is based off the old Pyke castle, and it’s a bloody nightmare to get into. The only entrance is a fifty-metre long bridge above one of the most volatile bodies of water in the world.”

“We know,” Jon told him.

“Four perimeter guard towers. With snipers.”

“That too.”

“And sharks. Did you know that, Maester Jon?” He pointed an accusatory fork at Jon, jabbing it to punctuate his points. “Did you know the bloody thing is built around a school of sharks? Like the kind that will eat you if you so much as set foot in their territory?”

“Fine.” Jon rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. “What about the locals? Have we got eyes anywhere? Maybe a city watch report?”

There is a common misconception that thieves, given enough talent and experience, can successfully avoid any and all altercations with law enforcement. But the truth is, no matter how good you are, no matter how perfect your con is, some things are bound to be noticed—like ten traffic stops suddenly malfunctioning, consecutively, in precise intervals. Or a Pentoshi Magister realizing his beloved Malanon had vanished from right under his nose.

It’s the reason why someone as experienced as Lyanna Stark found herself under scrutiny by Night’s Watch. A pebble, no matter how small, still forms ripples in water.

“I don’t know what they teach in that school of yours,” Robb said loftily, “but men like the Crow’s Eye don’t go to the cloaks.” And then to Daenerys: “He’s really lost his touch. Are you sure you can’t do better?”

She let out a weary sigh, but Jon had had enough.

“For fuck's sake, I only left for a—”

“You _left_.” Robb’s scowl was so deep it might’ve sliced through the earth. “You ran off to your pretentious rich kid school, with your fancy lecture halls and armour collections and if it weren’t for this Euron shit, you’d still be there.”

 _The devil is in the details_ —something Lyanna used to say whenever she caught Jon in a troublesome situation. She’d said it when he was six and refused to disclose why he’d hit another boy at the park they frequented (shortly after she explained what _bastard_ truly meant). Again when he was ten and had adamantly denied ever covering himself in flour to scare his cousins in the old Winterfell crypts (he still had flour in his hair). Over and again until Jon simply learned to stop getting caught.

He’d dreaded those words as a child, but as he stared at his cousin, he couldn’t help but find solace in them.

“Robb,” he said slowly, “how did you know about the armour collection?”

His cousin rolled his eyes and said something about a viral Twitter meme. But Jon was already rewinding to the previous day, to the security footage of a hooded figure running towards the Medieval Studies Building. The figure, he now realized, was far too tall and broad to have been Daenerys, but they resembled Jon just enough to fool the Seneschal’s Court, even Jon himself.

“ _Robb_?” He cut his eyes at Daenerys, his face burning with shock and humiliation. “You asked _Robb_ , of all people, to help frame me?”

“I can _still_ hear you,” Robb said flatly.

Daenerys smiled at Robb. “He’s cute when he’s jealous.” She motioned vaguely at Jon whose scowl only deepened. “Oh, relax, Jon. I had to get you out of there, and Gendry and Hot Pie would’ve been less believable.”

He knew she was right, yet he couldn’t help the sting that erupted in his chest. It was one thing to feel like he’d fallen behind, but to know that Daenerys and Robb had played him, made a fool out of him, was an entirely different pill to swallow.

“This was a bad idea.” Jon stood up abruptly, gathering the photos into his pocket. “I appreciate the help, but I can’t do this.” He looked at Dany. “I’ll see you later.” Then he turned to Robb. “And I’ll see you at New Year’s, or something. Thanks for coming, I’m sure you had other plans.”

Robb rolled his eyes. “Yeah, run away again, you prat!”

“Robb,” chided Dany, reaching for Jon’s arm. “Jon, don’t be like—”

He shook her off. “Lyanna’s _my_ mother, _my_ responsibility. I’ll take care of this myself.”

“Jon!”

He ignored Daenerys’ calls, ignored Robb entirely, and kept walking, zigzagging his way around tables and customers, until he felt the island’s cool, salty air against his skin. He was almost around the corner when he heard Daenerys call out to him.

“Isn’t your mother's life more important than your pride?”

Jon stopped short in his tracks, the weight of her words washing over him. He wanted to argue that she was mistaken, that it wasn’t something someone of her stature would ever understand. He was a bastard and a fraud, after all; he didn’t have any pride to speak of, not really.

But before he could get a word out, Robb’s voice was ringing down the street, forcing Jon to face them once more.

“You’re not the only person in the world who loves your mum, arsehole,” he said. There was no mocking in his voice now. No flirt or humour. At that moment, Robb wasn’t a thief trying to con him; he was Jon’s cousin. A member of the family.

“Let’s stop dicking around and be honest here,” he continued. “You need me. You know it. I know it. She knows it. Stop being an idiot and accept the help you’re given.”

* * *

They made the trek to Euron’s home, driving along rain-soaked roads, to Pyke’s southernmost point on the Sunset Sea. No one said a word on the way over, still weary from their earlier standoff and anxious too, of what was to come. But the three of them moved in sync, quietly unbuckling their seats when Robb pulled up on the side of a lonely back road and killed the engine.

Rain pattered against their jackets as they navigated the wet stony path, careful so as not to alert any wandering guards. As the waves below reached a crescendo, thunderous against the bedrock, Robb came to a stop, crouching behind a boulder near the cliff’s edge.

“What’d I tell you?” He motioned across the cliff and shot Jon a smug look.

Settled on islets off the coast of Pyke, Euron’s home was so much more than the prints had described and everything Robb had feared. It was like something out of a horror movie—a monstrosity of stone and wood, cloaked under dark rolling clouds. Four towers, outfitted with enough security to guard the Wall, loomed over the corners of a massive keep, around which stood a stone curtain wall, steep and invulnerable save for the one very-exposed bridge that extended to Pyke.

It was every bit as austere and outlandish as the Crow’s Eye himself.

“The Climb?” suggested Dany, the first to break out of their stupor.

“Too risky,” Jon answered. “You’d have to free solo it, which would take a while, and Euron wouldn’t leave his home unpatrolled for that long. There’s also sharks.”

“Dance of the Dragons?” offered Robbed.

Jon levelled a look at him. “Because flying two planes over an island that doesn’t have air travel,” he said sarcastically, “would surely go unnoticed.”

“I don’t see you coming up with anything,” his cousin retorted, under his breath, annoyed.

Jon rolled his eyes, but Robb had a point. In the time he’d had to study the prints to Euron’s home, in the time he'd had to observe the real thing, to get it all in perspective, he hadn’t once voiced a useful solution. Even as Daenerys listed the possible cons that might have been used to break into the fortress, he didn’t say a word.

Because the truth was, Jon didn’t have the first clue on how to rob Euron Crow's Eye.

He didn’t know how _anyone_ could rob Euron Crow’s Eye.

If he had more time, he thought, he might be able to crack the enigma behind Euron’s fortress, turn it inside out in his head, until the truth was his for the taking. But he didn’t have that luxury, which meant he was stuck ruminating over a mission that was, by all accounts, impossible.

He flashed back to Daenerys’ words at the restaurant: _It’s not a typical job_. She’d said it offhandedly but in truth, _typical_ was precisely where people like them thrived. For all that thieves turned people’s worlds upside down, they always did so under the same theories and cons and understanding of human psychology and—Jon froze.

That was it. That was the problem.

This wasn’t an ordinary job, so why were they thinking like ordinary thieves?

Before either of his companions could stop him, Jon leapt to his feet and made his way towards Euron’s fortress.

“What the fuck!” Robb cursed, scurrying to pull his cousin back to safety, but Jon simply shook him off.

“Where are you going?” Daenerys asked as he walked towards the bridge.

The bridge itself wasn’t a cause of concern. It wasn’t pristine, but it was stone-built and wide enough to fit a car. A far cry from the old suspension bridges the original castle used to have. But just as Robb reported, the bridge was arched over very torrential and deadly waters; if the snipers didn’t get him, the fall surely would. And if that didn't do the job, well…

Jon tried not to think about that.

“Jon!” Robb hissed. “They’ll see you.”

Jon merely shot him a smile. Because for the first time in a very long time, he didn’t feel so completely out of his depth.

“Exactly.”

With an effort, he trudged through the rain, making slow and deliberate steps on the slippery path. He could sense the guards moving in their towers, could feel the security cameras burning holes in his face, but he kept on. He was soaked and shaking by the time he reached the castle gates, but that didn't stop him from looking straight at the camera and pressing the button to the intercom.

“My name is Jon Snow,” he said, “and I’m here to see the Crow’s Eye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> baeduan on tumblr


End file.
